


Reflex

by orphan_account



Category: Noein
Genre: Character Death, Cross-Generation Relationship, F/M, Mistaken Identity, Serious Injuries, Very Dubious Dubcon, Wangst, mindrape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some dreams are best left forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflex

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I have no freaking idea how to to warn for or tag this thing. Suffice to say, the dream/vision/alternate dimension in this fic takes place concurrently with the main timeline in canon, which means Karasu is 27 and Haruka is 12. (I think Noein is also supposed to be 27?) So, yeah, there you go.

Haruka never sees the metal creature from Shangri-la. One moment she’s strolling down her front walk on the way to the park, casting a wistful glance over her shoulder at the window to the storeroom where Karasu is hiding, and the next wires are whipping around her stomach and shoulders and face. Before she can scream, the world bleeds away to white.

When Haruka opens her eyes, she’s standing in an endless sea of windswept grass that rushes toward the blue horizon. The same soft wind that ruffles the grass and caresses her skin drives clouds across the sky. Beyond that, there is no change or movement.

At her side is the masked spirit, Noein.

“All of this is for you, Haruka,” he says. “It is a world where you will no longer need to know pain or suffering or death -- only the endless beauty of earth and sky, forever.”

“It’s pretty, but I don’t want to stay.” She gazes up at him imploringly. “Please send me home.”

“Home?” Noein’s red eye glares out at her through his ornate golden mask. “What does that imperfect world hold for you, in the end? No matter what you think you have now, you cannot keep it. It will spill  through your fingers like sand, and you will be left with the taste of ashes and dust.”

“I have my parents and friends,” she protests. “I have Yu and Karasu.” It’s picturing the two of them on either side of her, holding her hands, that keeps her standing now.

“Your Yu is a coward, a stupid boy with a selfish heart who will never be able to keep you safe. There is no happy future for him.” It’s close enough to what Karasu once snarled at Yu that she flinches inwardly, and the mist that forms Noein’s body seems to roil and seethe. “And Karasu…” His voice deepens to a growl. “He is a man of violence who deals death to his friends, and he will meet the same end. Do you think that he will refrain from hurting you?”

“No, that’s not true!” she spits at him, angry now but panicked, too. “Yu _is_ brave, he just has to find it. And Karasu would never hurt me!”

Still roiling, the cloud that is Noein funnels toward her, the golden mask homing in on her face until it’s only centimeters away, and misty hands prevent her from recoiling.

“The dimensions are infinite,” he intones. “Each choice, each decision made by each human being forges an entirely new reality. In one of the dimensions that I have eaten, he has already hurt you, and you have both paid grievously.”

“No,” Haruka says, struggling to squirm away, but Noein has too many hands.

“I will show you what I have saved you from,” he says, and his multitude of arms dissolve the world.

 

&&&&&&&&&

 

Haruka is lying blanket-swaddled in bed, a pile of borrowed manga on her pillow, when she hears a scramble and a thud in the room next door. Karasu always makes noise when he gets back, of course, but the character of the sound strikes her with sudden dread. Volumes spill forgotten onto the floor as she vaults out of bed and wrenches open the door to the storeroom, where she finds him on his knees, gasping and clutching his side as blue sparks spill between his fingers and onto the floorboards. Red eyes peer up at her through his tangle of hair, wide and desperate.

“Haruka,” he gasps, and the arm propping him up trembles and gives way.

She drops so fast that the floor stings her hands, and when she reaches his side they clench on open air, because she doesn’t know what to _do_. She begins by rolling him onto his back; it’s easier than she’d expected. Even unconscious he’s gasping, breath raspy in his throat as his chest heaves. Her fingers move down the expanse of his chest, hesitating at the wound in his side, because she doesn’t have the faintest idea how to bind it, close it, do anything to stop it from spilling out everything he’s made of --

She crumples down onto him, whispers his name, but the only response she gets is the heaving of his chest underneath her. He’s no closer to conscious when she pulls herself together to get a better look, but the wound is smaller than it had been, and she can breathe again.

At least she can make him comfortable. Haruka wrestles the futon out of the hall closet and spreads it down as close to Karasu as she can. She heaves him onto one side and yanks it up against his back, then rolls him back onto its softness. Once she’s lifted his legs up he’s as much on the futon as he’s going to be, and a glance tells her she hasn’t made his wound any worse, thank goodness. But he’s still breathing shallowly, painfully, and it draws her lungs up tight. If Tono was here he’d curl up next to him, so she takes Tono’s place cuddled up against his side, and after a moment’s hesitation, her arm wraps as far around his chest as it will go. Even in these circumstances, he feels so solid, so strong, and her own breath has gone a little shallow, being this close to him for this long. She’s had thoughts like this drift through her head in the moments before sleep, almost indistinguishable from dreams. In those, he wasn’t injured. He was…

She shakes it off -- he’s injured _now_. But he’s here and not fading into glittering motes, and she holds him tightly, hoping that somewhere inside his unconsciousness it will be a comfort. It’s a comfort for her, too, and the pained but steady rhythm of his breathing lulls her to sleep.

When she wakes, Karasu is holding her.

“Haruka,” he rasps into her hair. “Haruka.”

His breath draws to a sharp point, and her hand wiggles free to find his face streaked with wetness. Shaken, she strokes the tears away with her thumb. “Shh, it’s all right,” she says, and his face turns into her hand, outlined by moonlight and creased with grief.

“You were dead.” His voice seems forced past gravel, and she’s left with a blank space where words should be.

“No, I’m right here.” It’s the first thing that comes to her lips, and he’s holding her tightly, a hand molding itself to her back and rubbing up and down in a deep, slow rhythm that seems familiar to him, but not at all to her. Somehow, though, it sends ripples all through her, up her arms and down to her toes. She holds him tighter to keep herself from squirming. His face, still damp with tears, turns so that his lips brush hers, and her whole body jerks in shock.

As his hand comes up to cup her face, fingerpads rough against her cheek, her breath comes quickly. She’s dreamt of this, little fantasies to keep her company at night, hidden down deep inside, sometimes even from herself until she brings them out again to hold. Before Karasu, she’d never so much as practiced kissing on her hand -- it seemed romantic and exciting but far away, something grownups did. But maybe it’s also something that helps them feel better, when they’re hurting and alone.

He’s always been a little guarded around her, with a contradictory tenderness in his eyes. It’s only in moments of crisis that he seems to gain his full range of motion, his arms a shelter close around her, no hesitation. That’s how his body feels now -- unafraid, though there’s a different sort of tension in it as it curves against hers and tips her back into the futon.

 Her lips reach for his, and his mouth returns to them again and again. Then more lingeringly, until it’s a wet pressure that delves inside, and back when she and her friends were giggling over movies they weren’t supposed to be watching, she never would have thought it would feel this good. His hand is cupping her cheek, sliding over the back of her head in a gliding caress, and his lips break the kiss to whisper, “You cut your hair,” before capturing hers again. The words penetrate far enough to baffle -- it’s been this way as long as she’s known him -- but quickly disperse at the touch of his mouth, which is traveling down her neck to her collarbone. Her hands come up to savor the rough texture of his hair, clutching at it when his tongue laps at the base of her neck. No, that might hurt him, she thinks, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Little sounds are leaving her, high and helpless, as his hand sweeps her nightgown up to bare the skin of her stomach, kneading slowly. It spans her ribcage and palms one breast, and his mouth closes on the other. She cries out. His lower body rubs against her thighs in the same rhythm his mouth makes over her nipple, a hard knot pressing against her through the fabric of his uniform, and she moves with it, her body full of something she can’t contain. This moment exists in a bubble outside time, and Haruka is racing to catch up. She tries to say his name, but nothing comes out. No words, anyway.

The rucked-up nightgown is bunched and confining under her armpits. Her fingers fumble at the top buttons, and she pushes it over her head as Karasu’s hand slides over her ribs, his mouth hot and wet and open on her stomach. The hand parts her thighs to smooth up the insides, and then it’s just the thin fabric of her panties between her and his hand. “Soft,” he gasps against her stomach. “Oh, Haruka.” His palm rubs her slowly, as if it knows about the ache there and wants to soothe it away. She’s hardly touched that place herself, and it’s different now -- hot and swollen and painful and slick where his fingertips probe through the cloth, tighter and more tender than her nipples have gone. Haruka is twisting, panting, knees straining apart, and then it’s not his hand between her legs but his thigh, and he’s rising on his hands and knees, his whole body between her legs, over her, pushing her apart in that same rhythm, but there’s so much more of it now. He lies heavily on her, but he’s keeping his full weight up so it’s not _too_ heavy--more like the most wonderful blanket in the world.

His mouth is on hers, and she’s panting into it. Even through the fabric of her panties, the fabric of his bodysuit, she can feel his--his penis, and it’s rolling against the hot place between her legs as he moves and she moves and oh! It’s too much, too much everything. She doesn’t know how she can keep living through this moment, through this heat, through this feeling that’s almost too sharp to be pleasant, but she needs it like the air that’s almost another creature inside her, it’s working her lungs so hard. Her breath is coming too fast even to kiss him properly, but that worry is lost under the hugeness of what’s rising inside her. It rises, rises, swells, and breaks like waterdrops spun into stars. At first she thinks it’s broken her, the contractions hit so hard, and she’s jerking and crying out into his shoulder as he whispers against her cheek, “Come for me. Come for me, Haruka.” She’s not even really sure what he means by that, but she thinks maybe she has.

She lies boneless beneath him, twitching and panting, but his movements roll on and carry her through it, and all the world is a pleasant haze. “You were dead,” he had said, back at the beginning, which was kind of funny, because she was the one who was afraid he might die. Then she remembers the words he spoke that first time he held her in his arms, when he broke her out of the glass tank in La’Cryma: “I don’t ever want to lose her again.”

Another her had been his lover, in that dimension. And that was why, now...

She could be that for him. Maybe that’s part of why he’s here, in this time and place. She could be anything for him, after this.

His chest is heaving against hers, and her fingers clutch weakly at the cloth covering it, at the sigil she can’t see because it’s too dark. Don’t people usually undress to make love? “Karasu, your clothes.” There’s almost no air behind her words, but he hears her, because her fingers are suddenly resting against his bare chest, and it’s skin all the way down except between her legs, and even there she can feel him more through the sopping wet fabric of her panties.

His fingers fumble with the elastic waistband. He’s panting like she was, rough and harsh, and finally he gives up and shoves the crotch of her underwear to one side. The fabric over her hip tears and something is probing inward between her legs, just skin now, just Karasu, and there’s a firm push as his abdomen surges against hers.

Before, Haruka thought something had broken inside her. Now she knows it has, but the shock of the pain leaves her without words, without even the breath to speak them. Her fingers scrabble ineffectually at his back as he arches over her, into her, frozen and panting with his eyes screwed shut. The pressure stretches her tight, more with discomfort now than outright agony, and there’s a suggestion of something beyond the pain, something that could grow if she has a chance to adjust.

His hips buck, and the chance is gone. She’s splitting, flesh tearing like a too-ripe fruit, and she can’t think past the pain. She screams -- not even words, just high, strangled sounds, and her feet kick against his calves as his weight pulls off her and he attempts to disentagle himself. The pressure drags out of her inch by inch, but it still hurts like there’s a knife inside her even once it’s finally gone. High-pitched, hiccupping sobs are escaping her, and she thinks miserably, ashamedly, that she must not sound anything like the Haruka he lost.

He rolls aside, still breathing hard, and she clings to him, kissing his chest, almost drowning in shame and pain. “No, it’s okay, you can still try. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobs. Her hand reaches down to grip his deflating erection. It’s slick between her fingers and hardens momentarily before Karasu grabs her wrist and pulls her hand away. The smell of blood is hot and heavy in her nostrils. He catches her head as she falls, and everything is fading to gray.

The next thing she’s aware of is Karasu cradling her in his arms like a broken doll, whispering, “No, no, no...” Something is dripping down the crack of her butt. She blacks out again.

The cool night air washes over her face, whistles past her ears. Karasu’s cloak is wrapped tightly around her, and there is a far-off sound like someone sobbing. Drowsily, Haruka turns her head. The trees and houses are laid out below like a diorama, like she’s coming back on the plane from Tokyo, but they’re getting bigger fast. Karasu connects, trips, falls, and she’s flung across the lawn like a doll in truth before her body rolls to a stop. Her head lolls back to see the geometric grid of windows rising high above. The hospital.

The grass beneath her, the air above--everything is cold. So cold.

Karasu lies a few feet away, but he does not rise. He’s always looked older than 27, and right now he looks older still. “I’m sorry, Haruka,” he says. It’s a broken whisper. “I wanted to protect you. I didn’t want…”

“No, Karasu, please don’t feel bad.” She reaches for his hand, but it’s too far. “Please don’t.” He’s breaking into pieces like Fukuro, and the wind is already sifting what’s left of his body away, a thousand blue motes glittering against the night sky.

 

&&&&&&&&&

 

“NO!” Haruka cries out, high and horrified, but her voice rings with authority, and Noein is flung away. Wind batters back the grass around her in a wide circle to echo the one that blazes around her throat.

“You say every new choice makes a new dimension. These aren’t the choices my Karasu has made. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home. I want my Karasu!” Her voice rises to a scream, and in the next moment, she’s standing on her front walk. She teeters and almost falls before catching herself and running inside.

“Haruka?” her mother asks quizzically as she thunders past her office and up the stairs to the bathroom there.

Inside, she slams the sliding door shut and yanks down her shorts and panties. No blood stains them, running out with her life, and her fingers probe between her legs to confirm -- no pain, nothing torn, just a clear, slick wetness. Lightheaded and sick, she sinks down, hanging onto the toilet. The worst of the images are already fading like a terrible dream, but others seem to have lodged in her heart, a tangible echo of the thoughts that make her flush as she drifts off to sleep even as she tries not to look at them too closely.

She still feels cold. All over.

Haruka washes her hands, splashes water over her face, and makes for the storeroom.

Karasu must have heard her running around, because he’s halfway to his feet, and when he sees her, his already-serious face goes taut with concern. “What’s wrong, Haruka?” he asks, then lets out a sound of protest as she plows into him and knocks him back onto the floor. His hands rise up and hover in midair, not touching her, and his body is rigid, shutting her out. Maybe she understands a bit better, now.

Tears well up, and before she can stop them she’s sobbing into his shoulder, hands knotted in his cloak.

His knuckles brush her hair, a bare grazing contact that’s still a comfort, and as she cries and cries, his hands cup her shoulders with the delicacy he might use to keep a leaf from falling.

He is the most wonderful blanket in the world. 


End file.
